


The "More" They Hoped For

by charlesworthy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:32:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3488393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlesworthy/pseuds/charlesworthy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The biggest disappointment in their relationship, they agree, is that no one tries to convince them how blasphemous the combination of a Dalish elf and Tevinter mage truly is.</p><p>-</p><p>Collection of short one-shots based on 20 themes I found randomly on the internet.  Starring my personal Inquisitor, Erinuil Lavellan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Guaranteed Sex

**Author's Note:**

> Be prepared for this to be updated sporadically, and to be of varying quality. This is a fun thing for me because I'm in Pavellan hell.

Sex was nearly a promise at this point.  It usually was, where Dorian got involved.  Lavellan painted a nice facade of naivete, but that had meant his half-lidded glances and dark chuckles made him even more tantalizing to go after.  These things, added to their contrasting positions, only made Dorian more determined.  He loved a bit of scandal.

It seemed, however, that the Inquisitor had absolutely no initiative.  He seemed content for the glances, chuckles in the alcove, staying just out of reach so that Dorian could think about kissing him, but couldn’t.  One would think a man in such power, that could bring nations to his knees and who had, at one point, had at least every ruler worth his country asking for assistance, would have some sort of skill in romance.  Alas, it appeared that Erinuil would wait for Dorian to make the first move.

 _You’ll take a man to meet his estranged father but not to bed, hm?_   Dorian thought, planning how to best approach it.

Though he had never seen the Inquisitor’s private chambers, they had to be impressive.  It would be moderately better than a cold wall, or Dorian’s own bed.  If planned properly, it could even look like Dorian had nothing but politics in mind upon visiting Erinuil there, and thus they could have at least two sweet days of sweet, secretive affair.  That was one of the best bits.

Undoubtedly, people would talk, but Erinuil Lavellan already held enough power that they were already talking.  He’d heard rumors of the elf getting around, so to speak, that didn’t involve ever leaving Skyhold.  In fact, Dorian’s countenance was probably already counted on that list, regardless of if it held the truth or not, so actually validating the rumors wouldn’t change anything in the eyes of the public.

It was all so terribly political, but the moment would be worth the fuss.

* * *

The only hitch in his plan was the fact that their dear inquisitor never went to his room when he wasn’t planning to sleep.  Following him then would be a mistake, far too obvious for the planned tryst.  So, rather without tact, Dorian had to drop a hint.

"Have you been to your chambers recently?  There’s something waiting there for you."

It had garnered a cute, confused look from the blond, which in itself was a treat.  Though Dorian may as well have shouted ‘I want to have sex with you’ to the whole tower, he was sure their previous flirting had made that message clear in the past.

It had worked, however, and once Dorian had made his intentions clear, it seemed to spark something in Erinuil, with the way the elf responded with a short “I thought you’d never ask” and nearly diving into a kiss.

* * *

"By the creators," Erinuil said.  "Next time you might as well just show up nude."

Dorian flushed at the mention of a  _next time_  but remained composed nonetheless.  He sighed, clucking his tongue.  ”It seems I have to do all the work.”

The elf, unaccustomed to anything remotely fashionable, had been struggling for minutes on disrobing Dorian, and had finally sat back on his haunches in resignation.  ”Until you’re undressed, that is,” he purred.  ”I can take care of you from there.”

"I do like the sound of that," Dorian remarked.  He had slipped out of his outfit faster than Erinuil could have predicted, but the elf was quick to rejoin for another kiss.

He ran his thin fingers down Dorian’s chest, applying just enough pressure to cause Dorian to press back.  He pulled away, a mischievous twinkle in his green eyes.  They fell, scanning over Dorian’s torso intently.

"I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how handsome you are," Erinuil said, leaning down to kiss his lover’s neck.

Dorian chuckled, running his fingertips down the elf’s sides.  It was no secret that Elves were beautiful, even in Tevinter, and even Erinuil had that lithe, muscled quality to him, despite being a mage.  ”Of course you don’t,” Dorian answered.  ”But it doesn’t hurt.”

"You are," Erinuil said, between kisses and gentle bites.  "The loveliest human I’ve ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on."

Dorian’s heart fluttered.  ”I could have told you as much,” he quipped.

One of Lavellan’s palms ran across Dorian’s stomach, before putting a delightful pressure on his hip.  The dark-hair mage let out a gasp.

"You lead me on," he murmured, while Erinuil trailed kisses down his chest.

"Nonsense," the elf replied.  "We’re here, aren’t we?"

"You had me expecting you to be red-faced upon losing your shirt."

"Well," Erinuil said, smirking darkly up at Dorian.  "You liked thinking that, didn’t you?"

Dorian could only chuckle. “Ah,” he said.  ”The inquisitor wants to be very, very bad.”


	2. Uniquely Suited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was uniquely suited for the job, loathe as he was to take it. Dorian just had to make him see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More talk this time, less fluff. I apologize.

Dorian found Erinuil staring blankly at his hand, while he had been waiting for Dorian's presence in the Tavern.  He had joked once or twice himself on the glowing green flair being distracting, but it worried him a bit whenever Lavellan stared a little too long.  The elf had the blighted thing for nearly a year now; to linger so long was only evidence of a troubled mind.

Dorian took a seat in front of him, and watched his fingers curl tightly into the Anchor.

"It's not hurting, is it?"

They had discussions, occasionally, theorizing how it worked.  Dorian had written down everything Erinuil had told him from his experience, which included things like 'a dull throbbing pain when near rifts' and 'feels like being stabbed when closing rifts'.

"No, no, I was just thinking," Erinuil answered.  Dorian leaned forward onto the table, that smile playing on his lips.  At first it had seemed mischievous to the elf, but he knew it now as something deeper.

"Do continue," Dorian said.  "It's a little public for a heart-to-heart, but you know I love listening to your voice."

Erinuil smiled, letting out an amused 'hm'.  He folded his arm across the table, pressing his mark to the wood instead.  "It's the mark, isn't it?  Inquisitor Glowy-Hand, that's the real reason."

Dorian chuckled.  It had been months since Erinuil had been officially named Inquisitor, though even when Dorian had only been at Haven for two days, it had been clear the elf had been leading long before his arrival.

"I'm not sure it is, amatus," he replied.  "Think about it."

"I have been, Dorian," Erinuil replied.  An accusatory tone slipped into his words.  This was eating him up inside, and he sighed the moment he realized Dorian knew it.  "I'm sorry, it's just...  I'm  _Dalish_.  On top of that, I'm a  _mage_.  The only things shemlen hate more than elves or mages is elven mages."

"They're not too fond of evil magisters either," Dorian supplied.  "Which do you think they'd prefer?"

"You have a point...

"But still," Erinuil continued.  "Why couldn't I just be a random soldier?  Cassandra created this whole mess, she's used to leading.  Maybe instead of one man, they could all lead together.  Do you know people are still calling me Andraste's Herald?  I don't mean any disrespect, but I don't believe Andraste was as important as any one thinks she was.  I certainly wasn't sent by any god, either.  If this was any one's will, it was Mythal's.  Doesn't the Chantry teach that the Maker's abandoned you?"

Dorian nodded.  "Yes, and they all say it's  _our_  fault He did."

"I'm sorry," Erinuil said, because Dorian was still Andrastian; he had said as much before, and Erinuil didn't want religion to become a point of contension between them.  "But I hate pretending like I care about a cause I don't believe in.  I'm here to seal the rifts, to stop Corypheus, to put things back the way they should be."

"Not to serve the Maker," Dorian finished.

"Yes."

Dorian reached across the table, placing his hand on Erinuil's--the one with the Anchor.  They both knew Dorian was familiar with that kind of pretending, but Dorian had the choice of running.

"Amatus," he started.  Dorian's voice was always caramel--shiny, sweet, and sliding out of his mouth smoother than silk.  It was soft now.  It was rare to hear him like this.  Erinuil's eyes met his.  "Who should be the Inquisitor, then?"

He bit his lip, thinking.  "I don't know," he admitted.  "Some shem.  Maybe a pious Lord or some other absolute arse."

Dorian laughed.  "Alright, let's say you get some Ferelden Dog Lord in charge of things.  Your stereotypical Southerner.  What happens?"

"Hm, alright," the elf started.  His eyes drifted upwards, but he shifted, casually placing his other hand on top of Dorian's.  "Lord Arsehole goes to the templars to help seal the breach.  Because he's afraid of mages, and Fiona's an elf."

"And what of me?" Dorian asked.  "Assuming I survive whatever happens at Redcliffe instead of wacky time travel antics, I either never meet him, or?"

"He'd kick you out, wouldn't he?  You're a mage, and a proud one,  _and_ Tevinter.  He'd call you a magister for days."

Dorian grunted.  "Quite."

"Oh, but he'd want Solas gone too.  Apostate elves, never a good combination.  I mean, you've seen the havoc I've wrecked."  He smiled, especially because Dorian chuckled.  "Ah, ooh!  And he never makes it back to the Inquisition after Haven gets destroyed.  He isn't used to the walking.  He's a pampered noble, probably never felt any snow in his boots."

Dorian laughed.  "Yes, and then Corypheus swallows up the world and we all die horribly to something or another.  See?  You're perfect as Inquisitor."

Erinuil blushed, removing his hand to sweep his bangs behind his ear.  His straw-colored hair fell short and back into his face.  "When you put it that way...  I suppose I'm kind of glad it's me.  I can show people that the People--Elves, I mean, aren't savages or lesser.  I can show people that mages can be more than birds to cage."

"Glad to have been of help," Dorian said.  He had a certain way of speaking, raising his head and glowing golden.  "Now, I suggest a round of brandy, and then some.  You're quite cute when you've had a glass or two."

Erinuil rolled his eyes.  "I can still kick out any magisters I want."


	3. Jasmine and Lemon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of cold fingers and tea

It was a cold day. Miserable, undeniably. Neither of them did well in the cold. Tevinter was a place of warm climates and warm rain, storms. Dorian had seen snow before, but the sheer amount of the stuff covering the ground in Skyhold was ridiculous, and wholly unnecessary. The Inquisitor was from the Free Marches, or said as much, and even though he was born in Ferelden, it had been far too long since he had seen so much snow or felt so cold, and therefore, he agreed.

The tower Dorian usually spent his free time in was freezing. Leliana's birds always had to come and go, and they brought in a new rush of cold air on their feathers. It circulated the air through the whole tower. Usually this was pleasant—stagnant air was never good, even if it were warm—but when it was freezing cold... Dorian had to draw a line somewhere.

Like always, Erinuil had visited Dorian in the alcove by the window after his meeting at the War Table. Dorian had been looking for such an escape. Get the Inquisitor, and take him somewhere warm. Preferably, a room with a fire place. How convenient! Didn't Lavellan have one of those in  _his_ chambers? Dorian usually only needed one reason to want to intrude in the Lord Inquisitor's chambers, but suddenly they were just piling up in front of him.

“Dorian,” Erinuil had said upon ascending the stairs. “It's cold.”

“Is it?” Dorian asked, feeling a distinct kind of burn in his fingers as he curled them. “I had no idea, actually. Once you lose all the feeling in your toes it kind of gets hard to remember what cold feels like.”

They shared a short laugh. Erinuil laughed because Dorian was clever—and also because he remembered a conversation he had with The Iron Bull before. Something about “frozen footsies”. Dorian laughed because Erinuil had crafted some sort strange mockery of a cloak. He had taken the duvet from his room (Dorian recognized the pattern from his last visit) and draped it around his head and shoulders, holding it closed by his neck.

“What,” he asked, folding his arms. “In Andraste's name, are you wearing?”

“It's cold!” Erinuil repeated. His tone was playful, if not defensive. “I've been wearing it all morning, to keep warm.”

Dorian shook his head, clicking his tongue. “At least find a blanket that matches your eyes, amatus. What would people say if I were seen with you? They'd say our relationship was nothing more than me taking pity on your terrible choice of duvets. Where is the scandal in  _that_ ?”

“True, true,” Lavellan admitted, chuckling. “We wouldn't want them to get the wrong idea of us.”

“Of course we wouldn't.” He smirked expectantly.

They had a schedule, as much as you could have one, at least, when your elven lover was currently the most important person in all of Thedas. The Inquisitor would attend whatever meeting was required of him—usually a short daily discussion of planning the Inquisition's next move. This could take anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour. Once it was over, Erinuil Lavellan would make his way to the library, pad up the stairs, and at the very least remain there until he had gotten a kiss from Dorian.

In fact, Dorian deducted that should he refuse to kiss him when he visited, he could orchestrate what might be the end of the Inquisition. No body wanted that, though, but it was an interesting enough idea to entertain.

“Anyway,” Erinuil started, and Dorian tried to predict what he would say. Probably something like 'I need to talk to you' when he had no intention on actually talking. It was cute, the games they played.

“I've nothing pressing to attend to today,” he continued, grinning. “I thought we might spend the day together. We could warm up together.”

Dorian quirked an eyebrow. “Warm up together. I suppose I could be persuaded to join the Inquisitor in his quarters.”

“ We can get a fire going,” he offered. “When you close all the doors to the balcony, it actually gets quite toasty.” He leaned forward, slightly, grinning. “ _And_ ,” the excitement was clear in the way his mouth wrapped around the word. “We can get the cooks to  _deliver tea to my room_ .”

It was childish to Dorian, his excitement. Yes, he knew that. Erinuil could probably get the cooks to deliver a four course meal to his room, without saying half as many words. Still, he smiled. “I'm sure you could also get them to dance the Remigold as they brought it to us, as well.”

“Remigold?” he repeated, cutely tilting his head. “What's that? Should I... even know?”

“Probably not. Tea, shall we? I'll take Jasmine and Lemon. With two spoonfuls of honey. Warms the body right up.”

Erinuil nodded. “That sounds delightful. What's a lemon?”

Dorian chuckled, wrapping an arm around where he assumed the elf's shoulder was. Covered in a duvet like that, it was hard to tell, but he squeezed the Inquisitor a little closer to him regardless. “You don't know? It's a fruit that grows back home. Now you've got me worried that the cooks won't have any.”

“It sounds sweet,” Erinuil said. He started walking, and Dorian walked with him, arm draped around the blanket covering his shoulders. “Lemoonnnnn. Like an explosion of sugar.”

“I don't recommend you bite into it, amatus. It's known for being sour.”

“Oh.”

* * *

“You are,” Dorian started, once they had retreated back to Erinuil's quarters. “An incredibly lucky man.”

They had set themselves down on the couch in front of the fireplace, which Erinuil had lit with the flick of his wrist. Dorian decided a blue fire would be fitting, and made the necessary adjustments. He much preferred this atmosphere to the tower—it was nearly a comfortable temperature, and it was only him, the inquisitor, and that duvet still wrapped around the elf's body.

Erinuil laughed. Upon trying the tea, he had decided he liked it, and over time had shimmied his upper body out of the blanket, which was now bunched around his waist, still covering his legs. “I thought we've been over this before? I've had at least three near-death experiences, excluding that encounter with Corypheus,  _and_ the Conclave itself. I'm a mage,  _and_ a Dalish elf that demands respect simply for the mark on my hand. On top of all those accomplishments, I've somehow seduced an incredibly handsome Tevinter mage. I could go on.”

“About how handsome I am? Of that I've no doubt.” He leaned in, closing the small amount of space still separating the two mages. Almost instantly, Erinuil moved towards him, turning his head to give Dorian a view of his slight smirk. “As lucky as you are in that department, it was not what I was referring to.”

“No?” As Erinuil spoke, his voice was lower, husky almost. Dorian nearly shivered—the elf knew all the right ways to butter him up.

“No. You are an incredibly lucky man, in that I am so close to you, despite your dreadfully tacky taste in duvets.”

Erinuil rolled his eyes, playfully. He had to give Dorian credit that he had gone this far without another jab to his make-shift winter coat. “I'm warm now,” he said. “I suppose you expect me to discard it?”

“You wouldn't want to push your luck, would you? The bottom of it is covered in filth.” The elf seemed concerned the moment the words left Dorian's mouth, and quickly bent forward to get a better look at his feet, and the edge of the duvet.

As it were, it was noticeably blackened, and the elf kicked it away from his feet. “Oh. Ew. You're right.”

“Most of the time, amatus,” Dorian replied. Erinuil sank back into the couch, resting his head on the altus mage's shoulder. Smiling, Dorian turned, placing a chaste kiss on the blond's head.

If it had to be so dreadfully cold in Skyhold, days like this almost made it worth the cold fingers.

 


	4. Sardonic Amusement

It had been a little early for brandy. While that usually hadn't deterred Dorian in the past (and he had made as much clear), he had neglected to remember that Erinuil had never been much of a drinker.

“Oh, the Dalish have alcohol,” he had told Dorian, once. “But some one has to stay sober. It's usually the Keeper, and while I had the opportunity, I just never drank much.” He never said it out loud, but Dorian knew that was part of what made the Inquisitor such a great man. Even without duties to speak of, Erinuil would put every one above himself, even in something as so mundane as drinking.  In some people, such a quality would be boring, but Erinuil was quick to relay stories of elves stumbling over themselves, piss-drunk after some sort of Dalish celebration.

Dorian could be very persuasive, however, and Erinuil had made it abundantly clear how tightly he was wrapped around Dorian's little finger, so the Inquisitor had been convinced on occasion to drink.

One such occasion was being spent on the battlements between the tavern's third floor and Cullen's office. Erinuil liked the view here, he said, and it was a better place to drink than in view of every one else. They had made a point to let every one know how little they cared of the rumors and opinions surrounding their relationship, but onlookers were never welcome in something so intimate. That was more of Dorian's belief, but Erinuil had supported it.  If there had been a reason for this, he hadn't divulged it.

The elf laughed, leaning forward into the crook of Dorian's neck. Erinuil Lavellan was a lightweight.

“Who next?” he asked.

Dorian touched his glass to his lips thoughtfully. “You haven't shown me Varric yet,” he offered.

“Mm, Varric,” Erinuil repeated. He pulled away from the Tevinter's side, replacing his glass on the tray that had been set on the wall of the battlements. Hands freed, he moved them to his head and pulled away his bangs, holding them tightly to the back of his head. This gesture gave Dorian a clear view of the tattoos usually obscured, and he watched them move with Erinuil's forehead.

“You wanna know about Bianca, Sparkler?” Erinuil said, forcing a laugh. “Sorry, that's the one story I never tell. But how about the Champion of Kirkwall? I love Kirkwall. Hawke Hawke Hawke Hawke. You owe me eight sovereigns—the Inquisitor had no problem with that high dragon.”

“You're right, the Inquisitor had no problem with that high dragon while Cassandra was distracting it enough to keep it from charring him to a crisp,” Dorian retorted. “Let's not forget how helpful those turned corpses were in rending it.”

“If you didn't want to pay, Sparkler,” Erinuil said, before coughing from imitating Varric's gruff tone. He tried to continue regardless. “You--” Cough. “Shouldn't have made the bet!”

“Your impressions are surprisingly spot on. But you pronounce 'Bianca' all wrong. Hasn't Varric taken offense to that?”

The blond shrugged, removing his hands from the back of his head and letting his bangs fall sloppily back into place. He didn't bother fretting over fixing it. “Do I?” he asked. “He's never corrected me.”

“Bianker,” Dorian said, chuckling. “That's how you say it.”

Erinuil pouted, a pink coming to his cheeks. He didn't reply. Instead, he moved his hands back to his forehead. Dorian assumed he was fixing the mess he made of his bangs, but instead he started running his fingers through them and towards the sky; obviously trying to get his hair to stand up.

Bemused, Dorian took another sip of brandy, merely watching what the elf was up to.

His hair was an absolute mess once his hands left it, but he had this charming smile affixed to his face. Dorian merely quirked an eyebrow.

Erinuil twirled his hand as he bowed, and his bangs fell unceremoniously back to his forehead. “Dorian Pavus, of Minrathoos.”

Dorian shook his head, hiding his smile behind his glass. He let out a small laugh. “Minrathous,” he corrected.

Erinuil scoffed as he stood up again, adopting a proud posture with his chin held high and his arms folded. “ _I_ know how to pronounce it, of course. Being so handsome and definitely  _not_ plebian.”

“Clearly,” Dorian added, glancing once more to the mess Erinuil had made of his hair.

“Did I mention I'm so handsome? Because I am. Could you imagine this profile with statues of the best Thedas has to offer? I do. Often. In marble. But of course, I have to remind you how clever I am too, less you forget. I visited the apocalyptic future, after all. It was exciting, let me tell you how it works.”

Dorian shook his head. “All true,” he admitted. “I imagine I'd look just as well alongside the Hero of Ferelden or that Champion. Probably better. It's why it could never happen.”

Erinuil nodded. “Oh definitely. I worry if they ever put me in stone. If you're next to me, they'll get the wrong idea on which one is the real Inquisitor.” He spun in a circle, in that graceful way Dorian found only an elf could, and plucked his glass back from the tray. He finished it, and moved to refill it with more brandy. “You have to do me,” he said. “I did you.”

Dorian pointedly forewent the obvious joke, instead replacing it with a slight sigh. “You won't get me touching my hair, but here..."

He set his glace down on the wall next to him, and straightened his shoulders.  His arms fell to his side, but one raised into a fist before him--something Erinuil found himself doing often.

“Yes, that's me, the Inquisitor. Yes! An elf! How scandalous. With magic? You may as well burn me now. Ohhh, but Andraste died the same way, didn't she? Even more proof your—What was it, Maker?--Sent me down from the heavens to save you from impending doom. But let's talk politics, I'm sure the demons will stop terrorizing the countryside while you scramble at my feet.”

“Well it's true!” Erinuil replied between giggles. “Every one is always so concerned for pretense, and never saves as nearly as much worry for the demons bursting from the sky!”

Dorian shook his head, also laughing, as he regained his drink. He understood the need for pretense, but the honesty the Inquisitor exhibited, even when every one was watching was commendable. All the more reason he was worthy of admiration, in Dorian's opinion.

“Ooh, I have one,” Erinuil said, quickly. He had to put his glass back down. Impersonations required him to be animated; he had even done a back-flip for Sera's. (Well, he attempted. Despite his nimble appearance, Erinuil was a mage, and had ended up falling on his ass.) The elf quickly went back to work on his hair again, smoothing it out and away from his face. It didn't stay—it never did agree with him—but Dorian understood what he was trying to accomplish.

Erinuil straightened, raising his shoulders as he did when speaking to a large audience. “I'm sorry, Inquisitor,” he started. “One of the recruits shoved a sword up my arse, and all I can think of is work.”

Dorian laughed. His previous chuckles had been soft; just as calculated as any other actions he made. This was a laugh that burst from his mouth. He had to gather himself to keep any brandy from spilling onto the floor.

“It can't work!” Erinuil continued, keeping up the caricature he painted of Cullen. “I may be an ex-templar, but you're still a mage! We're both men it would never—”

The door to Cullen's office slammed open, revealing a red-faced Commander. Erinuil froze in position before violently scrambling to replace his hair. Dorian kept laughing.

Cullen's brown eyes moved from one mage to the other, regarding them with some kind of icy calculation that Erinuil was thankful for never having seen before. Cullen composed himself, standing up straight, arms folded behind him—not unlike a good little soldier.

“Inquisitor,” he said, managing a tone that was simultaneously commandeering and somehow resigned. “I would appreciate it if you two toned it down. It's hard to focus with you two, loud as you are.”

Erinuil coughed. “Of course, Commander.”

Cullen smiled, turning back to his office. “Your Josephine is spot-on, though. As was Cassandra.”  There was something in the way  that he glanced between the two before retreating into his office, that told him their impressions of each other had been just as well.


	5. Mind Exercise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the biggest mind exercise was trying to figure out what to write so i apologize in advance for the quality or lack there of

Erinuil stumbled up the stairs, carrying in his arms at least three tomes and a large stack of papers. He passed Dorian without even an errant glance, before nearly throwing his load onto the closest table to Dorian's alcove. He grunted, picking up the stack of papers and shuffling them around, brows knit with some purpose indeterminable from merely watching him.

Dorian watched, however, peering around the bookshelf to see the Inquisitor pull up a chair, sit, and almost furiously tear through one of the books in search of something. The determined look obvious in his face, the mage decided to let Lavellan get to it. There was nothing he hated more than interruptions during the few times he had been so determined himself, so it would be safe to assume the same of Erinuil. At the very least, if the elf wanted his attention, he probably knew just how to get it.

Time passed and Dorian stopped watching. The rustling of papers could still be heard around the corner, even after Dorian had settled into reading. Once the blond had let out an audible groan that was nearly begging for attention, Dorian decided to intervene.

“Something wrong, amatus?” he called, peering over the corner and doing his best to look only mildly interested in Erinuil's well being. A facade.

The elf looked up from his work, and Dorian could see what he had been getting up to in the last hours. The papers were now strewn all over the desk, one with a noticeable ink stain was set aside. Several pens and ink bottles were on top of the papers—something one had to do when working with loose pages around flying birds. Various books were open to various pages, some had also been stained by ink.

Erinuil's mouth was half-open before he started talking. One hand had been running through his hair, and slid down his face after he locked eyes with the other mage. His fingers hooked on his lip on the way down, before hitting the book he had been reading. “No,” he answered. “Maybe. This is difficult.”

Dorian rounded the corner and stepped over to the table, glancing down at the papers and books in front of the Inquisitor.

“What is?”

Before replying, Erinuil glanced around the table before plucking a single paper from underneath the mess he had made. He straightened it gently with his fingers, a simple act somehow made graceful by the man doing it.

“I wanted to learn about codes and ciphers,” Erinuil explained. “Leliana lent me this letter—old correspondence from one of her agents. It's no longer relevant, but I told her I wanted something to practice on. It's always been easier for me to learn that way. She gave me everything I needed to decode it, so I thought I'd try finding a cipher for some other codes...”

He glanced to the stack of books next to him. “It's hard,” he said decisively.

“Well, yes,” Dorian replied. “Codes aren't meant to be decoded by outsiders.”

The elf sighed, folding his hands before him and leaning over them, glancing up to Dorian with resignation plain on his face. “I've made some progress, but then I spilled my ink and lost the other one I had managed to decode, and...”

Dorian had to force the smile off his face. Did Erinuil really not realize how brilliant it was to crack even one code in only a couple of hours? Maybe he was giving his lover too much credit (and why shouldn't he?) but the elf truly never seemed to understand how clever he was.

“Why the sudden interest?” Dorian ventured, leaning against the wall.

Erinuil gave a slight shrug. “Well... I like the idea of it. Something that only a select number of people can really see. And it's useful, you know, for some one like me to learn it. If I want to send a letter to the Clan without any one reading it, I can just write it in Elvish. I can't do that in any other situation.”

Dorian tilted his head slightly. “I thought you said Elvish was nearly a dead language. That you don't know all the conventions for it.”

“I did, but the Elvish alphabet is based on sounds. Where we don't know a word, we use the common one, constructed out of the sounds. I'll be the first to tell you it's childish and arbitrary, but if no one wrote it down, it would be lost. It... really complicates the grammar too.” He sighed. “It's so convoluted sometimes that we don't bother sharing it with the rest of the clan. There's no real reason for them to learn to read or write Elvish, anyway. It's kept to the Keepers.”

A small smile replaced the resigned look on his face, and Erinuil looked back up to Dorian, quirking an eyebrow. “You got me talking again,” he teased.

Dorian's response began with a nonchalant shrug. “You like talking. You just don't do it as much as you should.”

Erinuil couldn't argue with that, and dropped it. “Anyway. Codes. I want to learn for personal reasons, if not because it's a good skill to know.”

“Personal reasons being...” Dorian urged. He could already see straight through whatever veil Erinuil was stringing over his words. He was tricky like that.

The inquisitor sighed. “Personal reasons being I can give you little notes and letters without any one intercepting them.” He blushed, slightly. “Happy?”

Dorian smiled. “I am appalled that you did not recruit my assistance in your endeavors,” he said. Without another word, he closed the distance between himself and the table, plucked a spare pen off the surface, and started scribbling on a blank page nearby.

“Felix and I had something simple we used to use. No one ever figured it out.”

Erinuil watched him carefully. He still wasn't sure what was too much or too little to say about Felix. The last thing he wanted to do was purposely upset Dorian. Before he could find the right words to say, however, Dorian offered the vellum he was writing on to Erinuil.

The elf took it, gently, and read it quickly. It looked like an average letter, though in some places the grammar was just a little off, but any one would have thrown it away as being a bad writer. Some sentences seemed a little short or fragmented, but everything was perfectly legible and understandable. There were two things about it that really captured Erinuil's attention: Dorian's handwriting; a swooping, confident font that fit perfectly the person who had written it; and the fact that some of the letters didn't quite look like the others Dorian had written.

“So?” Dorian asked, folding his arms.

“You're going to make me figure this out by myself, aren't you?” Erinuil nearly sighed. It was a pointless question, they both already knew the answer.

“You're clever, amatus,” was Dorian's response, “It's not hard. You'll figure it out in no time at all.”

* * *

Dorian was only half-interested in the book before him, eyes boredly scanning the page to see if it had any merit. It seemed like another dull account of simple existence, so he moved to replace it on the shelf before him. Something hit his back, causing him to start, and before he had a chance to say anything, a paper was thrust in front of his face.

Erinuil had nearly tackled him from behind, wrapped his arms around Dorian's neck, and was proudly presenting whatever he had written.

“I did it!” the Inquisitor said triumphantly. “Look.”

Dorian plucked the page from Erinuil's hands and turned, though the elf insisted on hanging from his neck so. The note Dorian had written for him had been short, and the hidden message in the words was even shorter—a succinct little declaration of a few things Dorian thought of Erinuil, things he hadn't dared voice yet.

He blushed, slightly. Erinuil had gotten everything correctly. “You did it,” he said, smiling slightly.

The elf chuckled and it rang in Dorian's ear. “You're sappier than you like to let on, Dorian. I won't tell a soul.” He had to stand on his tip toes to plant a kiss on Dorian's cheek.

Dorian grumbled, or at least Erinuil thought he did. He had to chuckle again, but if Dorian was mad he made no sign of it. Instead, he wrapped his arms around the elf.

“It's cute,” Lavellan said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I'll write you something better. You can decode it the next time I go somewhere without you.”

“I'll hold you to that.”

Erinuil chuckled again, leaning up to place a soft kiss on Dorian's lips. He would keep his promise, they both knew.

What Dorian didn't expect was the exact contents of the Inquisitor's coded note. It seemed perfectly reasonable at a first glance. Erinuil was pretending to explain why he was going to the Emprise du Lion and why he wasn't taking Dorian with him. Underneath the code...

Dorian had written down the hidden message on another sheet of paper, and thought to burn it once he had finished. It would be scandalous if any one (aside from himself) knew that the Inquisitor was writing such things down. It was enough to make Dorian outright turn pink—far too descriptive and far too intimate for any one else's eyes to see. But he kept it, shoved between the pages of one of the few tomes Dorian had brought himself to Skyhold.

The Inquisitor would never hear the end of it, once he returned.


	6. Rare Sighting

Dorian never knocked when entering the Inquisitor's chambers. If he did it was two soft raps with the knuckles of his first two fingers, not even loud enough to be heard from anywhere within the room. He had business with Erinuil today anyway. He had less of a reason to knock than ever.

His quick pace brought him up the stairs quickly, and he opened his mouth to speak but stopped short when he saw the Inquisitor, and the Inquisitor got the opportunity to strike first.

“Oh, hello, Dorian.”

Erinuil grinned shyly. His arms were held out at his sides. A human woman was fretting over him, pins clenched between her teeth and hands tugging gently on his sleeve.

Inquisitor Lavellan was dressed in formal wear. Or, more aptly, he was getting fitted for some formal wear. It was different than the dreadful affairs they had been forced into for the Winter Ball. This one was of cooler colors. Green suited the elf, and obviously whoever had designed the outfit realized that.

Dorian had completely forgotten the reason for being in Erinuil's chambers, but he was quick to seem like his mind hadn't stumbled over itself.

“What's this for, then? Another party you haven't had the chance to invite me to, yet?” Dorian chuckled, and sat himself down by the stairs, crossing his legs. From there, he had a good view of Erinuil.

“If only,” was the elf's reply. The woman at his side pulled his arm upwards and inspected the seam down his side. “I know how to handle parties now. Do you know how incredible the idea of a Dalish meeting Orlesian dignitaries is?”

Dorian's silence invited Erinuil to continue.

“None of you humans seem to understand that before leaving my clan for the Conclave, I hadn't even met a shemlen.”

“Really?” Dorian had to ask. It seemed preposterous to him. Elves and humans were too tightly intertwined in his mind. Certainly the norms he grew up with were nothing that Lavellan wanted to hear, but to see them standing side by side was normal. “That's hard to imagine. I don't know if there are any humans that have never met an elf.”

“They have to exist,” he replied dismissively. “Aren't there tons of stories among shem about Dalish savages stealing children? We hear the same things about humans, you know. Though, it actually makes sense, considering every thing we lost.”

An indignant tone had entered the elf's voice far faster than either of them expected, and once he had finished speaking Erinuil cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” he said. “That was uncalled for.”

Dorian couldn't comment either way. He had developed a thick skin for generalities, and Erinuil rarely got mad about anything. It was interesting to see the elf lashing out, in any case. Maker knew the blond could use it. Orlesians, dignitaries, spies, and more were always clamoring for his attention. It would probably do him some good to shout something out from time to time.

The altus mage waved his hand dismissively. “You're Dalish. It's been a surprise you've gone this long without threatening to stick an arrow in any one's face for this long.”

Erinuil grumbled, and Dorian wondered if he had perhaps misspoke. It was best then, in that case, to drop the topic completely. Though what Erinuil apologized for was terribly tame in Dorian's eyes, there was no reason to bring him to spit fire.

The woman hovering over him moved, and started rubbing her hands on his shoulder blades, pulling at the fabric compromising his ensemble, and doing what Dorian recognized as last-minute inspections. Recognizing that their conversation had paused, she spoke.

“How does that feel, Lord Inquisitor?”

Erinuil shut his eyes. He hated titles, and he especially hated having one himself. “It fits fine.”

“Then it is done.” She had a smile on her face as she started unfastening the front.

“Do you really need it back? I was going to put it away until I needed it.”

“That's my job,” she replied simply. He blushed a little, looking back to Dorian as she removed the upper half of the garment from him.

Dorian carried a small smirk. “Don't mind me, amatus,” he said. “I like watching.”

“I'm well aware.” His ears burned. It was one thing to strip in front of Dorian alone, and a completely different affair when some one was undressing him. As if knowing, because he probably did, Dorian gave a light chuckle.

When the woman had finished, Erinuil was left in his small clothes, and she merely nodded and took her leave. The elf stretched, pulling his arms upwards and moving to the balls of his feet, before bending completely down to touch his toes. He muttered something under his breath, soft and fast enough that Dorian was unsure if it had even been Common. He supposed elves had plenty of swearwords to choose from too.

“I'm going to have to wear shoes,” Erinuil growled, once he had finished his little stretch.

Dorian laughed. “Not shoes! However will you keep your toes cold? Or turn them the stunning shade of violet that so matches your complexion?”

“Better questions,” the blond retorted, smirking. His eyes attempted a glare, but Dorian knew the lack of meaning behind it. “Would be; how am I going to walk in a straight line? Or avoid tripping down the stairs?”

Dorian shook his head, and stood. He did not wait for Erinuil's tailor to leave just so he could stare at the Inquisitor from across the room. He closed the distance as he replied. “I don't think I'll ever understand. Sera's managed to figure out how shoes work fine, disgusting imp she may be. You and Solas seem to be content to catch frostbite.”

Erinuil nearly fell into Dorian's arms, though he wasn't yet meeting the Tevinter's eyes. “In Tevinter, do elves wear shoes?”

“No,” was Dorian's reply. “But it is considerably warmer.”

“Then I don't have an explanation for Sera,” Erinuil answered. “I would have imagined slaves wearing shoes. It certainly feels appropriate.” His tone was sour, and Dorian offered a small chuckle despite it, leaning down to kiss the elf's neck.

Any tension that Erinuil was causing between them, Dorian decided to combat with brute force.

“Shoes are that bad to you?”

“Yes.”

After his curt answer, they remained in silence for a moment. Despite their closeness, Dorian was being unusually tame—keeping his hands on Erinuil's hips instead of elsewhere, and only leaving smaller kisses, no teeth.

“Was there something you needed, Dorian?” Erinuil asked finally. Ever helpful, him, Dorian mused.

“There was,” Dorian affirmed. “Once upon a time. I must admit you looked dashing enough to banish it from my thoughts, however. I know how much you loathe being paraded about, but you cut quite the impression. That outfit suits you.”

A softer smile curved the elf's lips, which he so graciously offered to Dorian by tilting his head to face him. “I could tell you were looking,” he said.

“Which is why you thought I might prefer relieving you of them?” Dorian had caught on perfectly.

“Wouldn't you?”

Dorian chuckled, leaning forward just so. He pushed, stepping forward just enough to clue Erinuil in on his intentions. In response, the Inquisitor kissed him, backing up until the back of his thighs touched the edge of his bed.

They broke for a moment, during which Erinuil slid his hands down Dorian's arms to grab his hands.

“I suppose I'll just have to make due with what I have,” Dorian said. Erinuil laced their fingers, smiling gently and tugging slightly on Dorian's arms. He sat down on the bed, and pulled Dorian on top of him as he laid down.

He let out a light chuckle. “Truly, you're impoverished, and obviously suffering.”

“Life is hard, amatus.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time: this has gotten a lot more attention than I expected. I was just doing this to indulge in my own slice of pavellan hell, and yet here we are. Next chapter I'll link to a ref of what Erinuil looks like, if any one's curious. 
> 
> Regardless, thank you all for reading, and Kudos-ing and bookmark-ing!


	7. Secluded Corner

There was something so undeniably charming about the small alcove Dorian Pavus claimed in the tower library.  Inquisitor Lavellan wasn’t sure if it was because of the chair or the window.  The chair was deceivingly comfortable, and the window was beautiful.  While Erinuil had little mind for why such fancy designs were necessary on a  _window_ , of all things, he could at least admire its complicate frame.  It was pretty.

The alcove was lacking a certain character though, a certain charm.  Erinuil settled himself in the chair, chuckling quietly to himself until Dorian returned.  He could see the mage inspecting a bookshelf on the other side of the tower.  Dorian hadn’t been in his usual spot when the Inquisitor returned from the war table, so the Inquisitor would take the comfy chair and make poor attempts to get under the Tevinter’s skin.

Leliana’s crows were fluttering about, as per the norm.  Their cries and wings were the only sound the tower had, most days.  It was peaceful, definitely a nice place to read, though Erinuil would prefer to read outside in any case.

He reached over to one of the stack of books Dorian kept near the chair, plucking the top one off the stack.  He turned it over in his hand.  What was this?

The elf let out a thoughtful hum.  One of Varric’s?  He hadn’t had the opportunity to read any of Varric’s books since this whole mess started.  It was on his to-do list, but closing rifts and killing Red Templars always took a higher priority.

“ _Swords and Shields_ ,” Erinuil murmured, reading the title.  He didn’t know Dorian was a fan of Varric’s work.  But where had he heard that title before?

He didn’t get an answer when he heard a distinct sound; one of a throat being cleared.  He looked up.

“Dorian.”

“You are in my spot,” Dorian said, shaking his head slightly.  “Do put that book down, amatus.  It’s filth.”

Erinuil chuckled.  “It’s Varric’s, isn’t it?”

“Complete tripe.  Not his finest, by far.  Why Cassandra is so enthralled with it is completely lost on me.  I prefer the finer things, as you know.  This includes smutty trash.”

The elf blushed, replacing the book on the pile.  He hadn’t assumed Dorian was the type to read that kind of thing, but he couldn’t say he was surprised either.  “Finer smutty trash,” Erinuil repeated, chuckling.

“Exactly.”  Dorian let out an amused hum. “Regardless, did you come here to 'talk' to your beloved, handsome mage again?”

The Inquisitor stood, smiling gently. “You know me too well, vhenan,” he said.

Dorian sighed. He had retrieved about three books from the opposite side of the library, and something in the way he set them down made it clear he was blaming Erinuil for interrupting something. However, the blond knew blame didn't imply anger, and Dorian was soon enough wrapping his arms around the elf.

“Should I whisk you away to some place more private?” he asked. His voice was low and soft. Dorian placed a kiss on the elf's temple, and Erinuil smiled because his mustache tickled his ear.

The blond gave a thoughtful hum, draping his arms around Dorian's neck and leaning into the other man. “Is it necessary?” he murmured, kissing the corner of Dorian's mouth. “They'll know anyway.”

Dorian shivered. There he went with that low voice. The Inquisitor was a man of many talents, and had a new voice for every occasion. It seemed he had a voice specifically for Dorian, and it had exactly the effect he wanted it to.

“I do so adore you,” he said.

Their lips met, soft and gentle. It was how it always started. Slow, subtle movements. It was always subtle enough that neither of them could really tell at what point it had become impossible to get any closer, or when the elf had moved to his tip toes and tilted his head to give Dorian's tongue better access.

Other things were more obvious, like Lavellan's fingers running through and occasionally giving a tug to Dorian's hair, or how at least one of Dorian's hands always found a resting spot on the Inquisitor's ass. The gentle buck of the elf's hips was also obvious, and never failed to bring a smirk to Dorian's lips, no matter what they were currently preoccupied with.

The Inquisitor usually never got away with that sort of behavior without Dorian squeezing his behind, and that only--

“Dorian!”

The voice was sharp enough to cause Erinuil to start, though Dorian seemed more surprised by the blond jumping than the voice.

“It was a matter of time,” Dorian mumbled.

“Is that Solas?”

Reluctantly, Dorian pulled away from the elf and nearly stomped over to the balcony, glaring down at Solas. “Yes?” His voice was sharp and short.

“Would it be so inconvenient to find some place private?” Solas asked, though it sounded more akin to an accusation.

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy?” Dorian retorted. He folded his arms over the banister. Erinuil could hear the smirk in his voice. “Or perhaps indignation? Perhaps you're worried I'll lead our Dear Inquisitor down the path of blood magic and demon-binding?”

“No,” he answered. “The Inquisitor's affairs are none of my business, but you two are loud enough to make it the whole tower's business.”

“With a spy network right above our heads, I doubt there's anything in Thedas that _isn't_ this tower's business. One couple meeting on the second floor is hardly important, in comparison.”

“It is when it involves the Inquisitor. Or do you disagree?”

“Solas.” Erinuil appeared next to Dorian, an amiable look on his face. “Aneth ara, lethallin.” His tone was amicable as well, though for all the Elvish Dorian knew, Erinuil could have just as well have been insulting Solas' mother. He continued in Elvish, meaning Dorian had be so easily cut from the conversation. Obnoxious, but so was Solas.

Solas responded in kind, and Dorian decided to entertain himself with how a language sounded to one unfamiliar with it. It was annoying, yet when Erinuil spoke it, he hung on to every syllable like he could almost understand its meaning.

The Inquisitor chuckled, and did Solas have a smile on his face? Elves.

“I'm sorry, vhenan,” Erinuil said, finally turning back to Dorian and opening some unseen door to allow him back into the conversation. “Some jokes can't be made in Common. Let's relocate.”

Dorian quirked an eyebrow. All that, and Erinuil hadn't worked that Inquisitorial charm to hold a better argument against Solas? He moved his arm, ready to place it around the elf's shoulder and usher him to his own chambers, but apparently the blond had other plans. Erinuil nearly tackled Dorian, forcing the Tevinter to stumble backwards and enter into a very passionate kiss with absolutely no warning. It lasted not nearly long enough before the elf pulled away, nearly as quick as he forced them together.

The elf tossed a small smirk down below, hooking a finger around Dorian's before lacing their hands.

“Aneth ara, Solas,” he repeated. “Ma'an ara. Tel'abelas.”

He pulled Dorian to the stairs before Solas got a word in edge-wise, and before Dorian had the chance to ask what he had said, they were already in Erinuil's chambers.

“You know, amatus, it's rude to leave me out of the loop,” he accused. His tone was playful; though he was a little peeved at being excluded from defending _their_ relationship, and _their_ right to be obnoxiously bothersome, that last kiss had certainly made up for it. “What did you tell him?”

“I made a pun with his name,” Erinuil answered, chuckling and pushing his hair behind his ear. “And another pun with... Aneth ara is a greeting, usually. A literal translation would be more similar to 'my safe place'. So basically, 'This is my safe place, Solas. It's also _my_ place, I'm not sorry.'”

Dorian chuckled, shaking his head. “You are an incredible man,” he replied. “I'm not sure I could adore you any more.”

“Do you mind, then,” he replied, lowering his voice and pulling himself closer to Dorian. “Demonstrating just how much adoration you have?”

Dorian laughed. “Very well, amatus.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1k hits what the heckie  
> Thank you all so much for reading
> 
> This chapter comes with a link to [a picture of Erinuil.](http://amatusss.tumblr.com/post/114013703096) That is also my personal blog, if you're interested in me outside of my fic writing


	8. On Loan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-game

The Inquisitor carefully inspected the designs lining the doorway.  Just as Dorian said; ornate dragons and other patterns, bathed in gold, black, and red paint that suffered under the warm Tevinter sun.  It had been moments since he had used the ornate iron knocker to get attention, and with every passing moment Erinuil Lavellan was wary that he had the wrong address.

The attendants he had brought with him (read: been forced to bring with him) had been shooed away, and were waiting just outside the gated entrance.  Once they saw the Inquisitor enter, they were dismissed.  Erinuil was loathe to bring an entourage, especially one composing of armed guards, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t thankful to have them.

Entering the Imperium had been an ordeal enough.  Great gates and walls lined the Southern boarder, and when they had approached a guard came out and walked straight to one of Erinuil’s men.

The guard had asked something in Tevene, and the poor warrior had no clue what it meant.  Erinuil was still learning, but he had managed in a very accented, yet somehow commandeering Tevene:

“I am the Inquisitor.  You open the gate.”

From that point on it had been stares and whispers.  He expected the gossip, though.  An elf leading a small entourage of armed men was probably the strangest thing that could be seen in Tevinter.  He wondered how many of these people expected him to be human.

He had been excited enough that he decided to put off finding the inn he was staying in, in favor of locating the Pavus estate.  It had been quite some time since they had last seen each other.

The estate was bigger than he expected it to be.  Even though he had lead the Inquisition for years now, and even though he had resigned himself to never returning fully to Clan Lavellan, Erinuil was still bewildered with just how  _big_  human houses could get.  Why did they need that much space?  From just looking at the building, Erinuil guessed he could fit his whole clan inside twice-over, and have more than enough room for all the aravel and halla.

The door finally opened, and Erinuil waved to the gate to dismiss the men.  They would find the hotel and come to escort him there at dusk, but anything they did in between was theirs.  Those had been the Inquisitor’s orders.

He turned back to the door and his smile instantly faded into a small scowl.  This was a surprise visit.  He should have expected an elf to get the door, but even if he had he wouldn’t have expected the way her face looked.

She looked at him, then around him, then back at him, curious.  Her voice was demure, but formal, as she asked him something in Tevene.  Erinuil could only recognize ‘are you’ and ‘new’.

“Where is Dorian?” he asked, silently berating himself for mispronouncing the first word.  “I need to see him.”

The girl realized he didn’t know Tevene, and switched tongues as quickly as her demeanor changed to something a little colder.  “Master Pavus has requested no visitors today,” she said.

Erinuil grimaced at the word ‘master’, even though he knew that sometimes it was just a respectful term.

“He’ll make an exception for me, I should hope,” Erinuil replied.  “I’m the Inquisitor.”

The elf gave a small gasp before bowing her head.  “I am so sorry, Lord Inquisitor!  P-please, right this way.  Forgive me, please.”

He forced a chuckle.  Her display caused his stomach to knot, but he was determined not to take that out on her.  “Just Inquisitor,” he said.  “Or Inquisitor Lavellan, please.  You don’t have to use titles.”

“Yes, of course, Inquisitor.”  She seemed panicked, but nevertheless allowed him entrance.  “Please, wait here.”

Erinuil had been to noble houses before, and they always seemed too big from the inside as well. Decorations, tapestries, carpets. To him, they were just more things that would have to be inevitably cleaned or dusted. Though, he quickly amended, without them nobles would probably have absolutely nothing to do. Or nothing to make some one else do, he added bitterly.

He bristled, torn between thinking he was being a little too sensitive, and demanding some kind of answer for why Dorian still saw elves as an inferior race after everything they've been though, when that smooth, familiar voice pulled him back to Thedas.

“Now what is the Inquisitor doing here, of all places?” Dorian's tone was amiable, but when their eyes met Erinuil knew exactly what he meant.

Erinuil just smiled. “Paying a visit to my favorite altus mage, _Master Pavus_ ,” was his reply. He even held out his arms gently and gave a sarcastic little curtsy.

Dorian chuckled. “Let's go some where a little more private, shall we?” he offered, extending his hand in a gesture to the rest of the house.

* * *

 

The elf followed Dorian closely, perhaps too closely. He wanted to lace their arms, or their fingers, because it had been so long and he felt as though he deserved that kind of affection, but settled for his finger tips brushing the inside of Dorian's arm.

Dorian was saying something irrelevant, about the house, or Tevinter. They both knew it was inconsequential, and that he was only talking _just in case_. Erinuil didn't know the social rules of Tevinter, but he knew Dorian would be playing them, so he stayed quiet, and admired Dorian's outfit instead.

He realized that the mage had been dressing modestly in Skyhold, when compared to the outfit he wore now. It was amusing, and Erinuil decided to bring it up when they were alone.

Dorian ushered him into what appeared to be a library, or at least a very large study, and shut the door behind him. Erinuil smiled, turning his grin towards his lover, but the look he received in turn was not nearly as pleasant.

“What are you doing?” Dorian asked. “No. Don't answer.” In actuality, if it were 'to visit you' Dorian would have been altogether touched and angry, and he wasn't sure he could deal with that. His brow furrowed, and he pressed his hand to his face.

Erinuil decided to supply an answer regardless. “I've actually been invited to a party!” he said. “Some one either trying to make themselves look good by cozying up with the Inquisitor, or by taking the Dalish elf down a peg.”

Dorian frowned. “That's so beneath you, amatus.”

And it was. The Inquisitor shouldn't have had time to go to every party. He was supposed to be making the world a better place, even after Corypheus had been stomped into the dirt.

“I know,” Erinuil replied. “Josephine even said it wasn't worth my time. But... I just really used it as an excuse to pay you a visit.”

Dorian smiled, gently. It wasn't his usual smirk or as big as it typically was, but it was cute. He shook his head. “Please. Don't butter me up before I get the chance to scold you for coming.” His smile faded and he sighed.

“You shouldn't have come regardless,” he continued. “Inquisitor or not, you're still an elf, and some one is going to expect to own you, or for you to fill their drink or do a dance to entertain themselves.”

Erinuil opened his mouth, but Dorian gave him a look that stopped him from speaking.

“I _know_ it's wrong, but that's the way things are here. They'd toy with you. Yes, you're the big-bad Inquisitor, yes, you took down an ancient magister that had more power than any other fool could dream of, but that would make it all the better to get you looking weak and vulnerable.” He folded his arms. “Show up to the party, amatus, and I guarantee you'll be introduced as an exotic accessory, if not paraded about like a lovely ice sculpture, before they either goad you into making yourself look the fool or ignore you completely. And I'm omitting any assassination attempts that are probably already scheduled. It isn't safe for you.”

Erinuil frowned. Dorian's tone was in no way patronizing, but the words he used spoke a different story. “I thought,” he started, his voice short. “Mages weren't allowed to be kept as slaves.”

“This isn't about that!” Dorian answered. “Mage or no, Inquisitor or no, no altus in his right mind would treat an elf as an equal! You could kill every man in the ballroom using just your pinky finger and they would still look down their noses at you. Elves are servants, slaves, or lucky enough to be mages, but even then that doesn't mean they're worth two figs to the upper echelons of society.”

Dorian finished, and Erinuil glared, folding his arms.

“I see,” he said. He bit his lip and glanced away. “Good to know finally where you stand, Dorian.”

“Amatus.”

This wasn't the kind of playful argument Erinuil expected. This wasn't the kind of banter that they would say with a smile, lean in, and then kiss. Whether or not Dorian meant it, it hurt.

“You came here to change everything,” Erinuil started. “You came here to make a difference, and you said I inspired you, but I'm not even an equal. And that woman out there, what was she? Does she help you pull your socks on in the morning? You've probably got more slaves around here, any _favorites_?”

“They're _servants_ ,” Dorian corrected.

“And that makes it okay! Do you parade them about in front of guests when you throw parties? Do you make them look foolish for your own amusement?”

Dorian grew silent, and Erinuil let the silence envelop the room. After awhile, when Dorian was convinced the blond would no longer spit fire, he broke it.

“It isn't fair, Erinuil,” he said. He so rarely used the Inquisitor's name. “And it's part of what I want to fix. I didn't say those things to-- I'm not that way. You _know_ I'm not that way. That woman—Oria--is a _servant_. She gets paid, and I don't allow any visitors to forget that. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that you weren't welcome here, it's only that... I don't want you to be taken advantage of.”

“Dorian.”

“Hold on, I haven't had the opportunity to be unbearably sappy in a while, amatus, so let me get it out of the way.” He smiled again, closing the distance between them and gently putting his arms around Erinuil, holding him there, at arm's length.

“I'm only worried for you getting hurt. This isn't about the Inquisition's reputation, or even yours. It would break my heart to see you forced into the silly games we play in the Imperium. It's so beneath you, and you are worth so much more than it.” He placed a surprisingly chaste kiss on the blond's forehead. “I missed you, amatus. You shouldn't have come here, but I promise I'll stop complaining.”

 


	9. Tad Less Elegant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> school has been kicking my ass so i have not been writing  
> IMO this one is bad, but the show must go on as they say
> 
> Winter Ball, obv spoilers for Wicked Hearts

“Lord Ser Inquisitor Erinuil Lavellan,” Erinuil said, raising his nose and putting on the worst Orlesian accent he could have conjured, “it has been a Long Night, and you deserve all the whiskey in Orlais.”

He kicked his heels against the wall of the balcony. After having exposed the Grand Duchess as a traitor and conspirator and settling the issue of Orlais' ruler, he had retreated to a side balcony off of the ballroom for alone time. Aside from all the fighting that was (as he had been told) _not_ supposed to happen at a ball, he had pulled a speech right from his arse, and he didn't want to see another soul for the rest of the party, especially not when they would be badgering him to tell them stories of the Dalish or (more likely) the Inquisition.

Now that he was alone he had no worries about taking off his shoes and throwing them off the balcony. He hated shoes—they threw off his balance and hurt his feet. Bare feet against the cool night air was an amazing feeling in its own right, and Erinuil was more than happy for it.

The elf shifted, looking down. He'd perched himself on the wall of the balcony, and wondered if some servant hadn't stole his boots to sell later. They'd be an elf, probably, so he hoped they'd fetch that servant a nice price.

“Amatus,” Dorian's voice pulled him away from his thoughts, and he turned to see the other mage shoulder through the Orlesian doors with two wine glasses, one in either hand. “You're missing the party. The _proper_ party, that is. They never start until some one dies.”

A smile curved the elf's mouth. “I'm sure it's nothing I'd enjoy,” he replied.

“Perhaps you'd enjoy this, then?” Dorian asked, offering him one of the wine glasses.

“What is it?” Erinuil lifted it to his mouth and sniffed it. It wasn't very strong, and that was a pity. It had been a long night.

Dorian waved his hand dismissively. “There are about eighty different spirits being offered by twice as many servants and this one, in my well-informed opinion, is the best of all the piss they're trying to pass as liquor.”

The blond gave a small chuckle and took a sip. Dorian leaned onto the balcony wall, glancing up at him. “You made a hasty retreat, every one is still talking about you. They've got every reason to, of course, but the party is much more dull without you.”

“Less murder, I suppose,” Erinuil mused. “Or is it because they've never seen a Dalish dance before?”

“Either or, in all likelihood.”

The elf let out something nearly akin to a snort that Dorian would usually tease him for, but something about the thin line his lips were pulled into stopped the Tevinter mage from bringing it up. It was a mockery of a smile. That meant...

“You've been through a lot tonight,” Dorian said. He'd been through most of it too, but he had been groomed for a life of politicking and social mingling. Erinuil hadn't. Dorian could have predicted at least 85% of what had transpired that night with little error, but he hadn't been the one climbing trellises and breaking into libraries. Though he was positive Erinuil would have been glad he was left with that job if he knew the kind of people Dorian had to pretend to be interested in conversing with.

The elf sighed. “I'd say that's one of the biggest understatements I've heard.”

“I'm asking if you're alright,” Dorian clarified. Erinuil glanced back to him, face unreadable.

He took a very long time answering, and when he did, his face fell.

“Well... It's better now,” he said. “I've removed those boots, I've got a glass a wine, and you're here.”

Dorian smiled. This is where a quip would come in about him always lighting up most people's days, but he decided against it in favor of asking, “What did you do with those boots anyway?”

“Threw them off. They're in the bushes somewhere.”

The Tevinter gave a chuckle, shaking his head. “Did you hit any one?”

“I don't think so.”

“A shame. That would have been fifty points.”

Erinuil shook his head, as if trying to shake away the smile. “You haven't explained all the points, you know,” he said. “Like murdering random strangers? How many points is that?”

“Does that information really concern you? You're already winning.”

The Inquisitor gave a small chuckle, and a comfortable silence settled around them, only filled with a quiet 'thmp' of Erinuil's heels hitting the balcony wall.

He broke the silence himself. “Dorian.”

“Yes, amatus?”

“Did... Did I do the right thing?”

The way he spoke made it seem like he had been navigating a huge moral dilemma—not Orlesian politics. Dorian gave a small sigh.

“I can't tell you either way,” he admitted. “But they think you did, so that's really all that matters.”

“Is that how this all works? I still don't have a head for all this... politicking.”

Dorian chuckled, drawing away from the wall and straightening, setting his wine glass down. “You need to get your head out of politicking for now. The party is still going on. Can't you still hear the band?”

“Yes?” the elf inquired, turning and canting his head to the side.

“Let me offer myself as a distraction,” Dorian said, bending slightly and twirling his wrist, extending his hand. Erinuil thought the gesture incredibly poised, somehow graceful. “Care to have this dance?”

The elf smiled, carefully turning and stepping down from the balcony wall. He gently, hesitantly placed his hand in the one Dorian offered. “You're going to be disappointed,” he answered, chuckling as Dorian drew him closer.

“Elves don't dance? You mean to tell me all the stories were false?”

“No, we dance.” The Inquisitor let out another light chuckle, closing the space between the two. “We don't dance slowly. And certainly not like you humans like to.”

“Yet you did so well with Florianne,” Dorian said. He gave a few playful tuts, pulling the Inquisitor away from the wall and swaying along to the muffled music coming from within the Winter Palace.

Erinuil did his best to follow Dorian's lead, though his heart fluttering was making it difficult to get a sense for the beat. “Were you jealous?” His voice turned to a murmur as he nestled his head in the crook of Dorian's neck. He was tired, tried, and exhausted thoroughly. Dorian was right—this distraction was just the thing he needed. And wanted.

“Of the Duchess?” Though his tone, as always, was borderline genuine and joking, Dorian's lovely voice was low and soft. His lips brushed Lavellan's ear as he spoke, causing the elf to flush. “How could I be jealous of some one who willingly chose _that_ hairstyle? Not to mention, she's quite dead now.”

The Inquisitor smiled, growing silent. Shemlen dances were so... intimate, as he had learned from Josephine's instruction. He was positive that if it had not been for Miss Montiliyet, he would have tripped over his own feet and not only send the Duchess, but at least three other couples tumbling to the ground.

This was even more intimate, but in a lovely way. This was intimate in a way that allowed him to memorize the lingering scent of Dorian's cologne, and it almost felt like no one was watching. The balcony was suddenly everything, and held everything that mattered. The Inquisition disappeared with the warmth from Dorian's breath on his neck, and he didn't have to worry about anything else in that moment. Any consequences that night would produce were no longer on his mind. Dorian had been right, and for that he couldn't help but be a little thankful.

Though, as he would later tell Dorian, the next time he wanted a moment like that, he was going to get one _without_ bringing three of the most influential powers in Orlais to their knees.

 


	10. Same Wavelength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh same problem with like the 5th one, this is mediocre because I couldn't freaking think of anything. It's also months later because summer break was a fun 3 month procrastination! I'm going to try and work on finishing this to move on to other half-finished things I've posted. Enjoy!

Returning to Skyhold after any misadventure was always a strange relief. It was never meant to be a home, but it felt a bit like it, and that was something special to the Inquisitor, who's home never stayed in one place.

There was one thing in particular always assured to be in the same spot, doing the same thing, no matter what time of the day they returned. This happened to be an object of ridicule the next moment the Inquisitor got some privacy with his Tevinter paramour.

They both glanced at each other, stifling smiles. Dorian did a much better job at it, and he wasn't the one that burst into laughter at the first opportunity.

“What do they even _do_ here?” Erinuil asked between laughs.

“Besides coo at each other? It's one of Thedas' greatest mysteries, no doubt.”

It was always the same scene – the woman pressing into his chest, constantly trying to get closer than permanently affixed. They kept telling each other how beautiful or handsome the other one was, constantly confessing their love. On most occasions, they could be caught speaking in tandem or otherwise completing the others sentences. It was absolutely disgusting.

“What would you do were I that obnoxious?” the Inquisitor asked, chuckling. Before the other mage had an opportunity to answer, the elf had pressed himself to Dorian, wrapping his arms around his neck and purposely lifting his calf.

“Dorian, vhenan,” he chimed, “You are the most handsome man in all of Thedas.”

The human chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “Unfortunately for you I already knew that.”

His hands found the small of Erinuil's back, though the elf was too close and could not be pulled closer.

“Hm, and I suppose that doesn't work for us, considering we're both men...” the blond mused. “Because you can't call me the most handsome man if you're already the most handsome man.”

“It seems our mockery of their obnoxious ritualistic displays of affection ends here,” Dorian agreed.

Erinuil chuckled, placing his bare foot back to the floor. “Damn.”

The two fell silent, though they didn't part, and they didn't quite meet each other's eyes. Dorian's were searching Erinuil's, but the elf was looking to the side, eyes shaded by his lashes.

“Dorian,” he said after a moment. “Were you ever that syrupy with any... past lovers?”

Dorian hesitated. “You know the answer to that.” His answer was vague when it needn't have been. It was true, or close – Erinuil had formed a guess before asking, but a guess didn't give as much closure as a straight yes or no. Before the elf could counter, Dorian reflected the question. “Were you?”

“No. I imagine we were similar in our secret trysts.” Erinuil's tone seemed a little bitter, but his smile was genuine. Or was that the other way around? “The Keeper tended to scold me if I was glancing too much at another elf, though I never really knew if that was because I only looked at men or because Keepers aren't supposed to have relationships. She told me stories warning against it, but it never made sense to me. There's no reason a leader shouldn't be like those they're leading, right?”

Dorian chuckled. “Says the Dalish Elf commanding Andraste's faithful.”

“That's... Not fair, but entirely true.” The elf smiled despite himself. “But what I was trying to imply--” Here he shot Dorian a playful glare. “--Is that I haven't been able to be this openly in... love with some one.”

Erinuil had said the trigger word, the L word, and Dorian blushed despite himself. His tan complexion usually hid it, at least slightly, so he hoped it weren't obvious. It didn't seem as if the Inquisitor was looking anyway.

“I guess what I'm actually saying,” the Inquisitor continued, looking up at his lover and offering a small smile, “is that I'm secretly, intensely jealous for them. Can you imagine? Being so obnoxiously open about... This? Already I don't think I tell you how much I actually... _feel_ , but to have the whole of Skyhold knowing? The whole world?”

He chuckled. “It sounds like a fantasy or something, doesn't it?”

Dorian tutted his tongue gently, shaking his head slightly. “Or a nightmare. Not only are we the most attractive couple in Skyhold, but I must imagine we also hold credentials for being the most taboo.”

Erinuil canted his head to the side, offering Dorian to continue.

“Well,” he said. “In the South, I suppose it is safe to assume men lusting for men isn't the scandal it is in Tevinter.”

“The Marches too,” Erinuil supplied.

Dorian's response – a cut “Yes.” - was very bitter.

“But it isn't exactly sought after. It can't be. I've heard enough stories of how desperate Fereldan was to have their lineage on the throne that they threw a bastard on it, without even having taught him which fork to use at dinner. You don't continue a line like... This.”

The elf offered a small smile. “Thankfully. I couldn't imagine raising a child while bloody holes in the sky were spewing out demon.”

“That's also true,” Dorian replied, amused. “Regardless, implying we fit _that_ bill, there's the matter that I am an Altus mage from Big Bad Tevinter, and you are a Dalish revolutionary who would, in any other scenario, rip me to shreds for so much as glancing in your direction.”

“Oh, I'm sure if you wanted me to you wouldn't have to push me too hard.”

“I'd rather remain intact, if it's anything to you.” The Tevinter gave a glowing smile, and continued. “My point _is_ , amatus, that even if, somehow, we could be that obnoxious, we'd still be best off like this. As we are.”

Erinuil's smile became a gentle curve. “Oh, yes, I get that,” he replied, moving a little closer to Dorian and slowly wrapping his arms around Dorian, his hands ghosting the human's hips. “But it would give me free range to openly admit how I feel for you, no holds barred.”

Despite himself, Dorian blushed, but he smiled through it, intending to keep his composure. “Well if you're so eager, why don't you begin regardless?”

“There's the issue.” Erinuil's smile turned borderline devious, and his smirk was now pointed in Dorian's direction. Their eyes met. “There's an Elvish proverb, you know. It says something like... You can tell a man nothing he wants to hear, if he already tells it to himself daily.”

Dorian chuckled. “I am rather handsome, aren't I?”

The elf placed a kiss on his chin. “How can I compete?”

 


	11. Familiar Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I skipped 10 because of reasons involving me not having my laptop outside of my dorm room. This was actually one of the first ones I thought of, so enjoy!

The desert was miserable.  Dorian could find all sorts of words for it.  Abysmal was on the top of his list, but he was currently amused with ‘Waste’ as in ‘Waste of time’ or ‘Wasteland’.  The little games he kept on in his mind were a weak distraction from the mountains of cold sand sneaking into his shoes.  He longed to clean them out and try to understand what it meant to be comfortable, but it would be a futile endeavor as long as they were staying in the Western Approach.

It couldn’t even be a warm desert either.  Absolutely disgusting.

He could hardly keep himself distracted from their delightful location by making small talk, either.  His companions were hardly interesting, or were too stupid to even pretend to be.  High society sitting right next to him, and Dorian would have a better time counting the blisters on his heel!

One mage seemed more paranoid than the others, periodically standing up and glancing around, raising his staff and glowing with sparks if he heard the smallest of noises.  Each one of them in turn had badgered him for this behavior, laughed at him when a small fox caused him to let out a shout, but he had done it so many times at this point that even that couldn’t keep them entertained.

He stood.  His name was Michalis.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, voice hushed, staff held with white knuckles.

“Michalis,” spoke the brunette to the left of Dorian.  “You’ve done this eighteen other times, and the last time you thought you heard some one, it ended up being a bloody varghest.  Again.  I’d rather you sit down and keep us from encountering another bloody varghest.”

Light chuckles peppered the group.  Michalis took an indignant face, as he had done in the past.

“And if it’s the Inquisitor now?  You’d rather he catch us off guard and run us through with that Qunari pet of his?”

Another man spoke up.  “You’ve also said that the past eighteen times.  You might want to start talking about the varghests you keep attracting.”

Michalis frowned, squinted, and raised one hand to block the sun from his eyes.  It was apparent he wanted to be right, at least once, and prove that indeed, the Inquisitor was climbing the hill and coming to meet them.

He saw them, and smiled.

“There!” he said, pointing triumphantly.  15 yards off, a band of four could be easily seen against the sand.  One of them was obviously Qunari.

“Venhedis, he had to be right once,” Dorian swore under his breath.  “Next time, predict a bunny, or a station up North!”

Each mage raised their staff, readying their favorite spell of choice.  Dorian may not have been as patriotic as his companions, but he still had no intention of dying so soon, especially not in a shithole like this.

Dorian closed his eyes, almost in embarrassment, as one of his compatriots shouted something about dedicating this fight to Lord Corypheus.

So they fought the Inquisitor.

The blond elf carrying the Anchor had a Qunari and two women with him.  The Qunari and one of the women rushed forward, weapons raised with all the intent to wipe them out.  Fighting close range was already a risky situation for any mage, but on top of remembering to not get killed by slashing swords and that battleax the Qunari had no trouble raising, arrows were being shot with no seeming regard for which side they were meant to hit.  The Inquisitor himself had several rumors regarding his strength or prowess in battle, and they were expected to take them at face value, even if there was no way an elven savage could master magic without the formal training of an Imperial Circle.

Michalis raised his staff.  He had been trying to conjure fire and hopefully incapacitate the arrow-slinger, but the Qunari chose him first.  The massive ax cut easily through Michalis’ staff, and Dorian had to look away before he could see it slice through his face.

So much for Michalis.

The altus mage turned his attention then to the warrior woman, bashing another one of his companions with a shield and toppling him over.  There was a brief opening for a chain-lightning and Dorian would take it.

Would have taken it, if not for the arrow that, in that moment, pierced his shoulder and sent him stumbling backwards.  It was an easy matter to retort with a spear of fire through the air, but it didn’t seem like Dorian could get much more use from that arm.

The fourth man with them, by the name of Orion, convulsed with the Inquisitor’s own attack, shocks galvanizing his body.  He fell, clothes singed, just for the woman to pierce his breast with a sword.  As she moved to finish off the mage she had been engaged with earlier, Dorian could hear his labored, uneven breaths, and Orion struggling to say his own name.

“Dorian,” he said.  “Run.  Get… back to the Imperium…  Find Cryssa, tell her… I loved her to my dying… breath…  Dorian…”

Running was cowardice, but Dorian couldn’t say he was too proud to be a coward.

It was an easy spell to transport one’s body a short distance.  Dorian had intended to move forward, away from where their foe was facing.  It would put him closer to the Inquisitor and that elf rogue, but he could take more arrows and spells than battleaxes and swords.  Risky, but he’d rather take the chance of survival than end here.

Once he apparated exactly where he wanted to, he took off running.  There was another Venatori camp hidden in the wastes; they all knew the way in to avoid being buffeted by the sandstorm.  He could get in and warn the others, do his patriotic duty, and go back home to waste his time with not almost being killed by the Inquisitor.

That was the plan at least.  It looked a lot better on paper.

Between his sandy shoes and the dunes of the Western Approach, Dorian lost his footing and fell face-forward, swearing loudly.  It was enough of a time waster to allow the Inquisitor to catch up with him, and by the time he hand gotten half way up, the elf was pointing a staff at him.

Dorian had never thought much about facing death.  He had no idea time would slow to a crawl, or what his last thought would be of.  His amber eyes met the Inquisitor’s, which were a bright green.  He had light lines crossing his face, trailing over his chin, nose and cheeks.  It was easy for Dorian’s eyes to follow them, as if he had done it before, as if they were familiar.

Everyone says that your life pass before your eyes when you finally meet death, but Dorian’s was only bits and pieces of the few memories he had of his childhood and school years.

It didn’t seem like he would be able to tell Cryssa her husband died loving her, and the thought made him think of his own wife, back in Tevinter.  No one could say the same for him, even if there had been some one to relay the message.  So what if she was with child.

In the moment where time stood still, the cornered mage reached for a blade at his side, unsheathing it.  Hazy memories of his Father mentioning blood magic came to mind, but he couldn’t remember if they were for or against.  If it was the only way to keep living, it couldn’t be that bad, could it?  Dorian could surely navigate his way around a demon’s boon, to keep himself safe.  All he had to do was touch it to his wrist and--

“Dorian.”

The elf’s voice, strangely familiar, had said his name.  “Dorian.”

A thought filled his mind so suddenly before he had a chance to determine if it was really his: what Maker would put an inferior elf in charge of an army of His children?

“Dorian, you can’t sleep in again.”

Dorian’s eyes opened to that same face, but it was more immediately recognizable.  “Erinuil.”

The elf smiled.  “I know you need your beauty sleep but too much of a good thing…”

“I could hardly improve as it is,” Dorian’s retort was immediate, even if he was muddling through, piecing parts together of his dream.  The harder he looked into it, the more sinister it seemed.

“You’ve got a look in your eyes, vhenan,” Erinuil said.  “Is something wrong?”

The human gave a slight shake to his head, almost imperceptibly.  “A strange dream, is all.  I’ll sort it out myself.  I don’t need you fixing everything in my life.”

It was often that they took mocking, playful jests at each other.  Making fun of the elf’s helpfulness, making fun of Dorian’s ego.  It was all in good fun, but always came with a specific tone that was seemingly absent in Dorian’s speech today.  As a result, Erinuil failed to smile.

“You can tell me anything, you know.”

Dorian gave a rather rueful smile.  “That takes getting used to, amatus.”

Erinuil’s smile was genuine.  “Then get used to it.”

“But really,” Dorian said, dismissively.  “It’s hardly anything you need worry about.  One bad dream isn’t a big enough problem for the Inquisitor to deal with.”

“What have I said about calling me the Inquisitor in bed?”

Dorian chuckled.  “Ah, yes, I’ll refrain.  Inquisitor.”

Unlike his other insecurities, he wasn’t quite shoving the dream down his throat to bury it with caramel words later.  Dorian rolled it over in his head.  It was horrifying, knowing that so easily could that have truly been Dorian’s fate, had he not run away.  Surely there were other Dorians with different names and different faces in similar situations.  Perhaps the worst part was knowing how easily it would have been to miss out on changing the world, or the elf beside him.

Erinuil stood and stretched.  The morning light cut wonderful shapes against his tanned skin, and his lithe muscles moved under his skin.  No, Dorian would definitely not want to miss this.

“Ah, amatus,” he started.  It was even a gift to be able to say ‘amatus’, and mean it.  Perhaps the elf didn’t know what it really meant.  Dorian’s amatus.  The man he loved.

The blond turned, peering over his shoulder.  He hummed in a questioning response.

“Nevermind,” Dorian said, grinning.  “I don’t think I have to tell you.”

“You could tell me anyway,” Erinuil offered.

But he couldn’t.  Or at least, he doubted he could.  Even if it were all too easy to put into words, Dorian didn’t think he could manage to say ‘Thank you’.

 

 


End file.
